


Parting - and the Red Sea

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [11]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 00:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20017018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: The Brit siblings get home for the fortnight between the Olympics Closing Ceremony and Paralympics Opening. (Almost home, anyway.)





	Parting - and the Red Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.

They lose hours flying home, each one etched in the deep bags under England’s eyes. By the time they get past passport control and head towards baggage claim on the British side England is only still functioning as something half-human by sheer force of indomitable _will_ , his eyes pried open by the bald, unforgiving airport lights and the chill of the _extremely_ early morning air seeping into the room and burning his cheeks and nose with cold.

The baggage carousel hasn’t started up yet, their luggage still being brought from the plane, but already the large U of the belt has been surrounded by the tired people from Team GB, everyone packing themselves in like squashed, expectant sardines so they can grab their bag the moment they see it. Normally, England would be among them, politely sticking his elbows out to guarantee the most personal space for himself possible, but Scotland had taken it upon himself to fetch all their belongings, striding forwards and parting most of the crowds like water around him. By collective agreement, it has been understood by everyone Scotland almost-but-did-not- _quite_ -mow-over that it is far too early to deal with the strident tones and temper of a cranky Scotsman, and so Scotland plants himself by the carousel where the unloaded luggage first emerges from the bowels of the airport virtually unchallenged, stout as an oak, arms folded, face wearily grim.

Fussing on default, Wales had disappeared into the crowds ten minutes ago, wringing his hands and murmuring vague things about finding them a trolley for their bags. England had been mostly tuning him out, letting the white noise of his siblings and the crowds around him buzz in one ear and out the other without meeting anything in between, absently preoccupied with keeping Northern Ireland upright. The youth had fallen asleep standing up, his jacket half falling off one shoulder, his cabin bag dropped from his slack grip by his and England’s ankles, and face pressed securely into England’s shoulder. England keeps one hand steady on the boy’s back, his other hand cupping Northern Ireland’s dark head. England can’t do anything about the crick that is _definitely_ going to be in his brother’s neck, but, if the lad slips, at least he shouldn’t crack his head on the too-shiny-for-the-hour floor.

Wales returns right as their baggage carousel begins to _wail_ \- a sign the belt is going to start to move, and their luggage _should_ be coming out. A ripple of movement goes through the crowd, drawn by the sound and the flashing light, pressing ever closer to the belt in a crush of sleepy faces, yellow duty-free bags and Union flags.

The first suitcase emerges, red, bright red, and emblazoned with a boldly white _GREAT BRITAIN_ , and suddenly arms are sticking out, _hundreds_ of arms, reaching for it. England frowns, wondering what the problem is as his mind refuses to connect things correctly ( _Wales_ had been the only one of them to get any proper sleep on the plane, and his snoring had kept everyone for ten rows either way wide awake), closing his eyes with a _wince_ when the noise of the crowds seems to just get louder as more of the luggage comes up.

Wales is talking. He’s using his most soothing _please stop yelling in front of the houseguests_ voice, but it still feels like a tiny drill burying itself in England’s temple. “So… you know how we all got matching individual kits?”

England _mm_ s in what he hopes sounds vaguely like agreement, and also vaguely like _please shut up_. He just wants to get their luggage, get a taxi to his London flat (where they’re all staying the night; the boss wants to talk to them before they disperse north and west), and collapse in his bed. He’s tired. He feels bruised all over. He has Northern Ireland stand-lying in a dead weight against him, with his hair trying to get in England’s mouth.

“And all the athletes and support teams got matching individual kits tailored for their sporting needs?”

England _mm_ s again, a flatter note than the last.

“Did…” Wales hesitates, and England squints his eyes open again to look suspiciously at him. Wales is usually the most emotionally astute of his siblings. _Why_ is Wales still talking?

 _“What,”_ says England. It’s not a question.

Wales’ eyes aren’t looking at him, his gaze focused on the scrum by the luggage carousel. “Did _everyone_ get given an identical red suitcase?”

“…They can’t have given an identical suitcase to _everyone_ ,” says England, a monumental feat of language, but already his head is turning to look at the increasingly noisy baggage carousel. Exasperated cries are beginning to rise up into the cold air as identical red bag after red bag comes up, and _nobody_ can tell which bag belongs to whom.

Including all of _theirs._

…There are _hundreds_ of bags.

England groans.

**Author's Note:**

> A [few pictures](https://twitter.com/bladerunner1982/status/768425680874774528) of [the disaster](https://www.boredpanda.com/british-olympic-athletes-red-bags-heathrow,-airport/?_t=1&_f=featured&utm_source=t.umblr&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=organic) that results from giving everyone on Team GB a matching suitcase.


End file.
